


A Chance

by lavenderlotion



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Gen, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2020-07-07 22:53:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19859347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderlotion/pseuds/lavenderlotion
Summary: Stiles reached out with the little magic he still had and gasped, taking in a deep lungful of breath. Power rushed into him, strange and foreign and not his own, but beautiful. Beautiful and powerful and clean, so clean. He could recognize it for what it was—the magic of the preserve, of the Nemeton, welcoming him onto their land.It had worked.





	A Chance

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd.
> 
> Written for Stalion Appreciation Week 2019.

Stiles had no idea what the hell he was doing. Which was worryingly par-the-course these days. Then again, he hadn’t had any idea what the hell he was doing since he was fifteen and so fucking stupid, stumbling into an entire world he was never ready for. Uncovering a world better left hidden, being thrown into the supernatural without any desire to be there. 

He would take that night back, so many times over, if he could. 

And he might be able to. It’s what he was trying to do, after all. His magic has always been wild—from his first moments with it, fighting off the Nogitsune with Peter’s help, casting the demon from his body. After that, his magic had felt like a being all of its own. Wild, where it glowed in his chest, sparking around his shoulders and his fingers as it pleased.

It wasn’t something that Stiles had ever been able to control. Another entity in Stiles’ chest, his spark did as it pleased. Often, that was keeping Stiles alive, helping him fight off monster after monster that refused to leave Beacon Hills alone. It strengthened the Preserves wards, tied itself to the land and bled its power into the earth.

Sometimes, it left him helpless. Left him broken, clutching at his father’s bloodied chest and  _ pushing _ with everything he was, calling on the magic in his chest and fucking urging it to do something, anything. And it did nothing. It did nothing and Stiles was left watching his father bleed out as he itched to burn the world around him to the ground (and he almost had, his magic sparking a fire, the warehouse he was in burning to nothing around him). 

Stiles had no idea what he was doing. He knew his dad was dead. Derek was dead, too, and most of the rest of the pack. The supernatural world had been found out—Stiles still has no idea  _ how _ , but he knew what it led to. It led to death. Extinction. Hunters tore the world open and forced Supernaturals out into the open before slaughtering them for being what they are.

And now, Stiles’ entire world was nothing but a memory. Everywhere you looked, there was pain. The world had fallen apart. Stiles had no idea what to do. He went to the Nemeton, still, like he always had. His magic always felt calmest when in the presence of the stump—as though his spark was bowing down to an older, stronger magic. At least, that’s what it has always felt like. 

He had no idea what he wanted to happen. He just knew that life, this life, was no longer worth living. He had no one left that he cared about, no one left to fight for. He wished he could go back, could somehow reverse all that had happened. He had so much magic, so much power inside him, and he hadn't been able to save  _ anyone. _

The Nemeton called to him, always had, pulled at his magic. It was weaker now, with the woods half-standing around it, the magic from the land long since depleted in an attempt to keep the town safe. But Stiles could feel it, and his spark urged him forward, kept him walking until he stumbled upon the tree.

Stiles had no idea what it wanted him to do—he never had time to learn magic, taught himself how to hurl spells as he ran for his life, but he trusted his instincts. His magic jumped towards the Nemeton, winding with magic far older than Stiles could even begin to imagine. He stumbled forward, pulled in by the force of the mixed magic, and then he burned.

* * *

When Stiles woke up, he had no idea what the  _ fuck _ was going on. He remembered burning, his body turning to ash as the Nemeton pulled his body apart, but he...he was alive. He was alive, and he was  _ sore _ . God, his head ached and every part of his body felt like it was being torn apart. The spell felt so far away, like a dream, and Stiles had no idea what was going on.

He could hardly think through the pain and it took him an alarmingly long moment to orient himself. He knew he was lying on his back, but it didn’t feel like he was on his bed or the rough cement of basements he had resorted to hiding out in. Stiles didn’t dare open his eyes, and he kept his breathing as soft as possible. He had been kidnapped enough times to know how to get away if he needed to.

He tried to move his wrist—not enough to alert anyone who may have been watching him, but enough to see if he was bound—but pain shot through his body, so sharp that he couldn’t quite keep in his sharp intake of breath.

“What do we have here?” Stiles heard a man say, but he couldn’t force his eyes open, not through the pain.

“Deucalion, we can’t just leave him here.” A woman, this time. The name almost had him jumping in shock—he had watched Deucalion get burned to death himself—but he kept as still as he could.

Stiles reached out with the little magic he still had and gasped, taking in a deep lungful of breath. Power rushed into him, strange and foreign and not his own, but  _ beautiful _ . Beautiful and powerful and clean, so clean. He could recognize it for what it was—the magic of the preserve, of the Nemeton, welcoming him onto their land.

_ It had worked _ .

It felt so different from the preserve he knew, the one from his time. That magic had been tainted, dark and ugly and  _ wrong _ . And then, it had been nothing at all. This was gorgeous, and it brushed over him in gentle waves, wrapped around his own spark and  _ healed _ it. The forests magic smoothed out the jagged edges of his own, washed out the darkness that Stiles hadn’t even known was lingering. 

Stiles smiled, not quite able to force down the sudden joy he felt. His spark felt...lighter. Calmer. More settled in his chest, far less like the wild thing that he had always known it to be. It was such a stark difference that Stiles shot upwards, clutching at his chest with both hands. He kept his eyes shut tightly, focusing inward to feel at the bright spot of magic. He never wanted to let the feeling go.

He pushed his magic outwards, combing through the forest and his surroundings. This wasn’t something he’d been able to do before, but now the action felt as simple as breathing. He blinked his eyes open as his magic travelled over the two Alphas, and he could feel the power of their wolves, could  _ see _ it through his magic.

“Well hello, and who are you?” Stiles head snapped up, and it took him a long moment to blink away the sight of the Deucalion he knew, tied up and screaming in pain as he burned, with the man standing before him. 

This Deucalion looked  _ years _ younger than the one he knew and seeing him without his glasses was a small shock. He looked soft, clean-shaven and hair slightly longer than what Stiles remembered. His sweater looked even softer than the ones he had worn while terrorizing Stiles’ pack, and he looked so much...lighter.

Stiles drew in a harsh breath, blinking back tears. He hadn’t even liked Deucalion, had  _ hated  _ him, but seeing the man alive was such a relief. It was the last confirmation he needed to be sure that the spell had worked, that he really had gone back in time, that he had a chance to change the future.

He had a chance. 

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are much appreciated!  
> come say hi to me on [tumblr](https://lavender-lotion.tumblr.com/)!


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